


he'll be coming round the mountain

by anstaar



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-16
Updated: 2011-07-16
Packaged: 2017-10-21 11:31:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anstaar/pseuds/anstaar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompt: Simon Illyan, the prole revolution occurred during Yuri's civil war</p>
            </blockquote>





	he'll be coming round the mountain

Sometimes Simon Illyan really hated his job. It isn’t the money. Whatever Michael thinks, Simon much prefers sharing a dodgy apartment with an over enthusiastic grocer’s son in the worst part of Barra Sultana to living with his brother. When he had first arrived in the city he had spent quite a few nights feeling guilty about this until he had written a hasty note explaining what had happened to him and where he was living and sent it to his brother. When he had woken up the next morning he had realized most of the guilt had come from not feeling particularly guilty over his leaving.

Michael’s guilt at making him work too hard, too young, had always made Simon feel guilty in return for not being able to assure his brother of his happiness. The tension between them had only grown worse as he’d grown older. Michael had grown only more upset when Simon had drawn back in his later teens and watching Jean trying to navigate between her husband and brother-in-law had been the last straw. Perhaps it hadn’t been the most mature or wisest decision to take off for Barra Sultana in the middle of the night, alone, with only a set of clothes, his journal and a bit of money but he had felt happier than he had in a long time. It was a depressing notion, that he felt better the farther away he got from his family.

This notion had only been proved when Michael had shown up on his door, begging him to return, Simon had been simply humiliated. They had stood awkwardly in the kitchen and Michael had told him that he was to leave the ‘squalor’ of his apartment to come back home (preferably with an eye to marrying one of the available village girls). When Simon had refused Michael had said he would pay for him to go to university if he would stay with his brother and honor their parents’ wishes by keeping the family together. That had been when things started to get personal, resulting in a screaming fight in the streets and Simon’s acquisition of a set of much better locks. However small his paycheck, it is enough that keeps him from having to go begging to his brother.

It isn’t the boredom, either. Nighttime patrols of the old Counts’ houses are unpopular for a reason. Simon had only offered his name up in desperation after he had been turned away from yet another simple job for lack of physical qualifications. Despite himself, though, he had found he rather enjoyed himself. He liked the quiet routine of his beat. He was good at letting his mind drift away until it was only his moving feet and watchful eyes, all thoughts having slid away. He even liked his rather nocturnal schedule and the readymade excuses it offered to avoid socialization. Most of the time, when he considered work before drifting off to sleep, Simon couldn’t think of any reason to ever leave it.

Sometimes, however, Simon hated his job and this night was a perfect example. He had arrived where he was supposed to be exactly on time (he despised unpunctuality, setting himself up for a constant war against the traffic filled streets of the capital city) only to have to wait for Markus to finish up his rambling lecture on the genealogy of the low Vor to a bored looking Komarran family. Simon was already disgruntled throughout his scan of the house, a feeling that bloomed into full grown annoyance when he entered the next house to the sound of a man’s voice drifting from back in the kitchen.

Simon entered the kitchen quietly, while there was always the chance that it was a particularly mad, old Vor who had forgotten that when lurking to kill you shouldn’t talk to yourself but he found that idea rather unlikely. “I swear, cuz,” the voice said, “if he sends me one more little note about available Barrayaran women I’ll pull him into family therapy for disrupting my work, I almost yelled at Lin today and you know how he is-” the voice clicked off and Simon realized, rather embarrassed, that his weight on the door had pushed it slight open and his presence noticed (it was even more embarrassing when he remembered the long hours he had spent eavesdropping as a boy). He pushed open the door decisively and walked into the kitchen, trying his utmost not to little even a hint of a shuffle into his steps.

The man at the table is not what he expected. Simon’s not sure what he had expected. Mysterious, late night visitors tended to be split between fierce relics of the old order and over enthusiastic tourists. The voice had been Betan but the man wasn’t peering around the kitchen in search of relics of a bygone age. In fact, the man seemed completely unaware of the significance of his surroundings. Instead, he sat at the table with a turned off vid-screen infront of him, watching Simon and smirking in a way that made a petty part of him hope the man was some sort of counter-revolutionary who would be spending his next few nights in a cell.

The man spoke first, his voice was low and carried the same Betan accent as the voice, “I was going to light an offering.” The words were simple but Simon blinked in confusion. “It wouldn’t be right, though, this was never her home. Besides, it would probably be a fire hazard.” He smiled ruefully, “Sometimes I think father may be right about having lived on Beta too long.” It was in that moment that Simon recognized him.

There is a picture in the history books from the end of the war. Xav Barr, face serene, one hand resting on his grandson’s shoulder, the other wrapped tightly around his son-in-law’s wrist. Aral Kosigan’s face is tired and he looks ragged in his too large uniform, holding his cousin in his arms. The first time Simon had seen the picture he had been struck by how ordinary the family looked. No sense of inner majesty he had always privately imagined from the royal family. If anything, Aral had only grown more ordinary with age.

“It is a surprise to see you here, Aral Kosigan,” Simon said carefully. Aral waved an airy hand.

“Barr, actually, my father has his pride. Which is why I am not here to finally agree to sign over the deeds to our ancestral home.”

“Why are you here?” Simon asked, trying to keep his tone casual. Even after the official pardons had been sent out, few high Vor had deigned to return and live like anyone else. Though, to be fair, it was hard to imagine that life on Beta Colony would provide many opportunities for a fallen aristocracy to rise above their fellow man.

Aral laughed, “You have obviously never been privy to Betan therapy. Apparently, my return to my childhood home to set my mother at rest will help me move on to the next step of my life.” Simon stood, unable to think of anything to say. Aral seemed to realize this, “Sorry for getting in your way, this isn’t where I should be.” He stood. Simon considered all the extra time he was going to have to spend sweeping the house for bugs or traps and then writing the report. Still.

“The house is still there at Surleau. I think they’ve even fixed some of the damage it received during the war, hoping for some tourist revenue I suppose.” Aral smiled.

“Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind. I leave you too your work.” He brushed past Simon, leaving the kitchen feeling rather empty. Simon contemplated the long night stretching ahead of him. Sometimes he really hated his job.


End file.
